


Bucky Barnes, (Not Quite) Esquire

by getluckywithbucky



Series: Bucky's Adventures in Law School [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Law School, M/M, Pining, Stucky Big Bang 2016, a lot of alcohol actually, beach adventures, references to other characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7890640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getluckywithbucky/pseuds/getluckywithbucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a poor law student who works 2 jobs along with being a full time student and has long since accepted that he’ll never be able to do an unpaid internship without being homeless, too. Love and romance are literally the furthest things from his mind. Except he meets Steve Rogers, who somehow makes this law school thing look easy despite being 5 foot nothing and looking like he stepped out of a punk show, not a law school library. Featuring Bucky’s failed attempts at dating, stress over final exams, Bucky being the mom friend, Sharon shoving straws in noses, Sam not accepting Bucky's shit, Steve appearing out of nowhere, a lot of alcohol, Oregon coast bonfires, and Bucky and Steve finally getting their shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Filing

**Author's Note:**

> So here we have it. My submission to the 2016 Steve/Bucky Big Bang! I had two main motivations for writing this particular story: 1) I'm a law student, and they always say "write what you know" or something like that; 2) I honestly thought this would be a fun and easy thing to write that people would enjoy.
> 
> Oh boy was I wrong. This was hard as hell to write. I procrastinated. I pulled my hair out in frustration. I binge-played Pokemon Emerald AND Black between paragraphs. I don't know why it was so hard. I think because as I was writing, I kept drawing parallels between myself and Bucky. There's a LOT of me in him in this thing. And some stuff is straight from my life. But it was hard to write because, yeah, I know law school, but I sort of came to realize the more I wrote that I don't know jack shit about love. So writing a believable relationship? Creating that build up? Hard as fuck. But I like to think I managed it. I hope that you, the reader, agrees.
> 
> I didn't have a beta for this. I probably should have, so all mistakes are my own and please feel free to let me know if there are any glaring horrible errors. I'll fix 'em.
> 
> I really want to thank my artist, [herobuckybarnes](http://herobuckybarnes.tumblr.com/), for being absolutely incredible. I'm sure I was a nightmare to work with - every time I thought I was almost done, I ended up being nowhere near and kept pushing back the date. So thank you so much for being patient with me and doing an incredible job! You're awesome. (I'm working on getting the art in the story, so I apologize for it not being in as of the posting!)
> 
> Also, thanks to the coffee shop crew and regulars who more than once gave me disappointed looks when I was playing Pokemon instead of writing. Their disappointment and eyerolls shamed me into getting my shit together and finally finishing this thing.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Sometimes, Bucky misses Brooklyn. Misses the hustle and bustle, the kids only half-joking about sabotaging a fire hydrant on a scorching hot day, the Bodega clerks and their infinite knowledge of the most recent gossip about so-and-so down the street. Other times, Bucky's glad he left. Sure, he'd always love Brooklyn, because it's the place that he grew up, the place that was home before he could really appreciate what home meant.

Portland, though, is starting to feel like home too. It's more subdued, less rushing about, and the guys at the convenience store around the corner gossip just the same way and always know which smokes to put on the counter as he walks up (he likes to switch it up, and usually they guess right). Kids don't mess with the hydrants, though, and if he thought the homeless in Brooklyn were pushy, they have nothing on the ones just a few blocks from his apartment.

But he likes it, likes how people smile at him when he walks by, likes how (almost) everyone he's met has been genuinely happy to talk to him. Like any city, it's got its downsides - junkies and dealers (and the heroin dealers are the worst and there are days where Bucky sees them and wants to stab them in the throat), some over-aggressive homeless people who start fights for no discernable reason, too-loud drunks screaming at girls who walk a little faster and clutch their bags a little closer.

His ma had called him moving across the country running away. Maybe it was, just a little, and he was adult enough to admit that. He could've gone to school closer to home, in Boston like his mom had wanted ("Columbia is a great school, but if you're going to law school it should be in Boston."), but he couldn't stomach the idea of being so close to home. He’d been in New York all his life, and Boston was too close for comfort.

So he wound up accepting the offer from the law school in Portland, listened to his ma accuse him of abandoning his family and his dad complain that he was settling.

He's been gone almost two years, and they've mostly accepted that he's happy where he is.

"Becca brought home a new boy," his ma says during their weekly phone call, and Bucky grins. She always seems to call when he’s in the middle of cooking dinner, and he has to remind himself every time that time zones are a thing. His kitchen is tiny as hell, all narrow counters and cramped work-space, its only saving grace being the fact that the stove works damn well and the fridge is in easy access. He didn’t rent the apartment for its kitchen.

"Does he have as many piercings as the last one?" He asks as he places the phone on the counter furthest from the cutting board, covered in vegetable goo, speakerphone crackling to life.

His ma laughs, and it's such a great sound, even distorted over the phone, "Not that we can see! He's a nice boy, very polite."

"Better watch out, ma, he might be trying to lull you into a false sense of security." It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, with one of Becca’s boyfriends. Her taste in men is spectacularly bad; Bucky used to make fun of her for it until he realized his taste wasn’t much better.

"Oh, I have no doubt," his ma says, laughter still in her voice. Never let it be said that Winifred Barnes doesn’t know her children.

As they chat, Bucky makes some headway on tossing vegetables into a pan and trying to work them into something edible. The amount of rice and vegetables he eats would probably be healthy if they weren’t smothered in butter, but seasonings are expensive and Bucky can’t bring himself to keep more than salt, pepper, and adobo in his cabinet.

He’s just dishing up his concoction when the conversation shifts from his sister's new beau to his own love life.

Well, Bucky muses, lack thereof. Winifred clearly derives some kind of joy out of tormenting him.

Bucky groans as he turns speakerphone off and puts the phone back to his ear, "Ma, we've been over this. I don't have the time for it."

He can practically hear her eyeroll, "I know, I know. But you're 27 and you’re going to be a _lawyer_.”

“Ma, being single and being a lawyer aren’t mutually exclusive concepts.” He doesn’t bother to explain to her that law school leaves very little time for having a social life, let alone a romantic life. Hell, it’s a good night when he gets to bed before midnight. It’s an even better night when he gets to bed without the help of whiskey.

“Sure, but wouldn’t it be nice? I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

And she has a point there, but it’s not like he doesn’t have friends. He has Sam and he has Sharon, two people that do a lot to keep him sane just by being there. “I’m not, Ma. I promise. I got lots of friends and as much of a social life as I can.”

She doesn’t sound convinced when she replies, and Bucky can’t blame her. Winifred Barnes only wants the best for her kids, wants them to be happy and healthy.

Sometimes that’s hard to make happen.

When they hang up twenty minutes later and he’s left his used dishes in the sink to take care of later, Bucky packs up his casebooks, shoulders his backpack, and heads out the door.

His usual coffee shop, Chai Harder, Brew Better, a place just above “dive” status about four blocks from his apartment, is probably closer to being home than his actual home. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, and Bucky definitely made a dumb Doctor Who joke the first time he found the place. He likes to think that was part of the reason Clint decided to hire him on to cover shifts. It’s cozy, in a way that doesn’t actually _look_ cozy, with big double doors and local artists’ works displayed on the off-white walls.

As he approaches, dodging the occasional person either moving too slow or stopping to talk to one of the street’s many homeless, there’s a group of people watching a chess match at the storefront’s bench setting. He shoves down the instinct to tell one of the players that they can’t smoke at the table, but he’s not on the clock and the windows are all closed, anyway.

Wanda’s closing at Chai Harder, Brew Better when he elbows the door open, and she grins at him over her customer’s shoulder as Bucky drops his stuff at his usual table in the corner. Sharon and Sam are already sitting there, headphones on, cold brew and iced tea dripping condensation onto the table as they type away on their laptops. Sharon waves at him and scoots over on the bench to make more room for him to join them.

One of them had already grabbed his usual nitro cold brew. He takes a sip, dragging his books and computer out of his bag with a sigh. Bucky’s not exactly sure what made him take 15 credit hours of substantive classes, other than wanting to graduate on time, but every time he has to pull thirty pounds of crap out of his backpack makes him question his life choices.

While he’s digging, Sam pulls his headphones off. “So what’re you working on tonight?”

Sam isn’t a law student, and honestly it’s half the reason why Bucky sought him out the first day they met at the coffee shop. It was a happy coincidence that they go to the same college, Sam finishing his masters in psychology on the undergrad campus while Bucky attempts law school. Sharon, like Bucky, is finishing her second year of law school hell and shows it through the three empty pint glasses of cold brew and the water bottle he knows doesn’t have water in it.

“Uh, property for now. Then I guess evidence and crim law? I don’t even know, pal. All I _do_ know is that I’ve got 5 finals in 2 weeks and I’m gonna die.” Bucky slides into the booth and drops the property casebook on the table with a soft thud. He doesn’t exactly hate the class – the professor is great, his classmates active, but the material itself is dense and frustrating. He has a feeling that if he ever hears someone say “present estates” or “future interests” in a conversation he might actually explode.

Sam makes a noise that can only be described as pacifying, and Bucky sticks his tongue out at him. “Hey man, keep that in your mouth. You’re the one who decided law school would be a great idea.”

Bucky groans, leaning back and lightly hitting his head against the wall, “Please don’t remind me of my bad life decisions.”

Sharon snorts, elbowing Bucky in the side, “Does that mean I can’t invite you get drunk with me and some other people in 2Hell tonight?”

It’s almost like Sharon doesn’t know him – or knows him way too well. He’s not sure what he’s done in his past to deserve the friends he’s got, but it must have been just questionable enough to saddle him with smug grins and excessive booze. “Sharon, the Friday night I decide not to go drinking is the night I need you to make sure I’m not dead or replaced by aliens.”

He doesn’t think to ask who these “other” students are.

She mock salutes him, pen in hand, and for a moment Bucky wonders how this is his life. He’s still not exactly sure why he decided that law school was the best course of action for him after his Master’s degree; he’d had a job offer with the State Department, one that actually had _benefits_ and _actual money_ , but had turned it down in favor of taking the LSAT and applying to law school. If he’s honest with himself, he didn’t think he’d get in. He’d done no real community service work, had no actual experience working a “real” job, and most of the shit he’d read in the “what you need for law school applications” had focused on those two things.

He scraped by on the LSAT, hitting just above the minimum score for the school he wanted. All he can figure is that he must have had one hell of a personal statement and his references must have fucking _gushed_ about him.

Bucky understands why Sharon was accepted – sometimes he looks at just how much time she puts into her studying and can’t help but compare his own methods and how inadequate they feel. It’s a dumb thing to do and he knows it; he’s not a slacker. On top of spending every waking moment studying, he works two jobs and somehow manages to keep something of a social life going. Sleep is a myth, and Bucky’s accepted that sad fact. Still, sometimes the invasive thoughts trickle in and nothing he does ever feels like it’s really enough.

He figures it could also just be final exam induced existential dread creeping in.

The three of them sit in silence for a while, studying and occasionally sipping at their caffeine, and there’s always something soothing about the sounds of the coffee shop around them. Bucky can’t stand studying in silence; the library is oppressive in its silence, stress and anxiety of every other student permeating and seeping into every corner. Chai Harder, though, is light and calm, and while Bucky sometimes gets distracted, he never feels _stressed_ there.

He’s 30 some-odd pages into the night’s 45 page Property reading when he decides it’s time to take a break. He kicks at Sharon, grabbing his cigarettes out of his bag as she kicks him back with a grin.

“Wanna join me?” He asks, but Sharon shakes her head.

“I’m trying to cut down.” She says, and Bucky is reminded of the last time she said the same thing. Within two days of “quitting” she was back to smoking like a fucking chimney. Final exams will do that to a person.

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Talk about bad timing.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you. Go destroy your lungs.”

The first drag is always the best part of his smoke break. The click of the lighter, that first inhale and exhale. Bucky likes watching the smoke billow, the way the light plays through it, and the way the nicotine makes his limbs feel a little looser. The second drag is almost as enjoyable, but each drag has diminishing returns, until he’s only still puffing on the cigarette because the pack was $7.25 and he wants to get his money’s worth of cancer and lung disease.

He’s on his third drag when he sees Sharon check her phone through the window, her face lighting up. He’s on his fourth when a familiar dyed blue head makes its way down the sidewalk towards him.

He’s on his fifth when he avoids officially meets Steve Rogers for the first time.

Bucky isn’t exactly the most social person when on campus. He keeps to himself, goes to class and works his ass off, but he can count the number of friends he has at school on one hand (one finger, if he’s honest). But he knows his classmates, and some of them he’s friendlier with than others.

Steve Rogers is not a classmate he is friendly with. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be friendlier with the man, it’s just that the man is _intimidating_. Sharon makes a point of making fun of Bucky about this, because Sharon is scared of nothing and has asserted herself as the dominant member of their friend group. She likes to point out that Steve is shorter than she is, that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, that his tattoos and piercings aren’t anything to worry about.

The tattoos don’t scare him; he wants to run his tongue across every line of them, hear the sounds that Steve makes when Bucky takes him apart with his mouth. It’s a problem.

Which is why when Steve walks straight up to him, Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice and runs for the proverbial hills, quickly stubbing out his cigarette and hiding in the coffee shop’s employee bathroom like some kind of kid.

Bucky never said he was anything but a mess.

Just to give himself something to do while he hides, he turns the water on in the sink and scrubs absently at his hands. They always seems to get dirty so much faster than they did when he was on the East coast, soap always a dull gray with dust when it rinses away. Bucky can’t stand it when his hands feel like they’re caked on in dirt, and he knows that’s a new feeling, probably derivative of the stress of school.

He knows he’s stalling. Sharon probably also knows he’s stalling.

Wanda bangs on the wall between the kitchen and the bathroom, and Bucky snorts glancing at the beach mural on the wall. Even Wanda knows he’s stalling, and that’s a good enough reason for him to turn the damn water off, dry his hands, and stop hiding in the bathroom.

He pauses with his hand on the door nob. It’s not that he doesn’t want to actually meet the guy; that’s not it at all. He wants to. The problem is, Bucky isn’t exactly sure what he could offer, conversationally or otherwise, to someone who honestly looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Bucky sighs. He’s being ridiculous. He shoves the door open, drops the key behind the counter, and finally looks back to the table where Sharon, Sam, and now Steve sit.

Sharon zeroes in on him immediately, and if Bucky had to describe her smile in one word it would be “predatory.” He knows immediately what’s about to happen.

“Bucky, so nice of you to join us. Everything come out okay?”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he slides back into his seat, “Yeah, great. Thanks.”

He’s now conveniently right across from Steve, and he’s pretty sure that Sam or Sharon orchestrated it that way. Probably Sharon.

The thing is, Steve shouldn’t be intimidating. He barely comes up to Bucky’s shoulder, thin and small in a way that makes Bucky think that as a kid he probably got overlooked a lot. He’s all blond hair and big blue eyes, and if you ignore everything that makes him Steve Rogers, he could just be another face in the crowd.

Bucky noticed him during orientation, and his first thought had been “fuck.” Because Steve? Yeah, intimidating as fuck. There’s a certain assumption about law students - they’re all the stuffy suit types, business casual and neatly combed hair. Bucky knew he didn’t fit into that stereotype going in - the last time he wore a suit was for a job interview, and more often than not he wears oversized sweaters and too-tight jeans.

Steve, though, while everyone else was wearing button downs and their nicer clothes, was wearing cut-off shorts, a black tank top that was more holes than fabric, and a pair of American flag Doc Marten’s. Bucky took one look at his bright blue hair, gages, and patch-covered messenger bag and told himself that Steve Rogers would destroy him.

And Bucky would probably _thank him for it_.

So yeah, Bucky thinks he’s pretty fucking intimidating, and he was right about a lot of things - Steve’s actually fucking brilliant, and it shows in how he somehow managed to snag an honest-to-god _paid internship_ , the fucking holy grail, while still being in four of Bucky’s courses for the semester.

And here he is, sitting across from him in a crowded coffee shop on a Friday night a few weeks before final exams.

“Well, now that Bucky is back from his excessively long bathroom break,” Sharon says, flicking him in the ear, “We can adjourn this meeting and go get fucking smashed.”

Steve grins.


	2. Discovery

 

They end up going to their usual bar. Kells has a better selection of whiskey, but Bucky won’t lie and pretend he actually _likes_ whiskey. He fucking hates it, especially the cheap shit bars keep as their well. Jim Beam is an affront to mankind, and Buffalo Trace is only marginally better in that way where it’s tolerable if there are no other options.

So when Sharon suggests that they go to Kells to induct Steve into their band of merry miscreants, Bucky vetoes that shit. “How about we take him to a bar we _actually_ like?”

Sam seconds this, and Steve doesn’t seem to have an opinion either way, still looking a little dazed at how fucking enthusiastic Sharon is.

Bar 616 is nothing short of a dive. It’s what happens when a dive gets a fresh coat of paint and some nice booths, but never stops being grimy. The counters are always a little sticky from spilled beer and liquor, no matter how many times the barkeep wipes them down with slightly off-color bar-rags. The lights are dim, the music loud - and Bucky can get behind the 90s hip-hop they’re playing tonight - and the usual crowd stands around, chatting and laughing.

Sharon’s the first to claim a barstool, high-fiving Carol when she slides her usual whiskey ginger across the bar. Fucking whiskey.

Steve ends up going next, ordering a hefe and Bucky has never been so impressed by something so fucking _hipster_. Carol seems to like him, if her laughter is anything to go by after Steve says some sort of joke that Bucky is too far away to hear.

He’s barely even opened his mouth once he reaches the bar before Carol’s making his Moscow Mule, and he watches her muddle the lime as an excuse to not follow Steve’s progress to one of the outside tables with Sharon. He’s focusing so much on Carol’s frankly terrifying bartending skills that it’s only when Sam elbows him in the side that he actually realizes Sam’s still standing next to him.

Bucky wishes Sam didn’t have that _look_ on his face, this smug little grin and he has no doubt that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be super fucking embarrassing.

“You know, you pine any harder and we’ll be in a forest. A pine-scented forest. Full of pine trees.”

Bucky scowls, “How dare you make me hear that with my own two ears. Really, of all the jokes you could make, you go with ‘pine trees.’ This friendship is done.”

By the time everyone has their drinks and are crowded around a table on the back patio, Bucky feels like he can finally calm the fuck down. Sam’s not-so-gentle ribbing is the best kind of anti-anxiety remedy, and it never fails to amaze Bucky how easily the man can bring a group of people together.

Sharon and Steve are chatting like old friends, and honestly Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if they were - he’s only ever been to one or two of the law school’s events, his work and class schedule always getting in the way of actually attending any of the lunch meetings or weekend excuses for getting shit-faced. There’s a lot he doesn’t know, Bucky realizes. For a long moment, he lets the voices of his friends wash over him, because it’s one thing to realize that he has a limited social life, but another entirely to realize how much he’s missed out on just trying to make ends meet.

He wonders, not for the first time, if maybe he needs to get out more. Not just the standing Friday night alcohol-and-french-fries-and-dick-jokes outing, but actually trying to find the time to talk to people that aren’t Sharon or Sam or his coffee shop co-workers.

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he only notices that Steve is talking to him when he hears the slight upturn in his voice, tone questioning and obviously trying to engage him in the conversation.

It’s probably not the best stalling technique when Bucky takes a gulp of his drink. The drink sits heavy in his throat, not quite wanting to go down right away and Bucky sputters, lime and ginger ale and vodka trying to move into his sinuses. It’s definitely undignified the way he coughs, if Sam’s sudden laughter is anything to go by. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to punch him on the shoulder.

Finally gaining control of his vocal chords again, he wheezes out, “Sorry, what? I was dying a little.”

Steve grins, “You might want to work on that.”

“Yeah, yeah, wise guy. What was the question?”

“Just trying to get a feel for everyone. I know Sharon is hoping to be a prosecutor, but what about you?” Steve leans forward, dyed-blue hair mussed, and Bucky figures it’s probably from running his fingers through the strands. “What are you hoping to do with that $130,000 J.D.?”

And isn’t that an interesting question, one that Bucky doesn’t exactly know the answer to. He has _an_ answer, the one he gives when bartenders or Lyft drivers ask, but he doesn’t really have _the_ answer just yet. Sure, he could say what he usually says, answer with a flippant “Oh you know, help people” but he gets the feeling that Steve isn’t just asking. The set of his thin shoulders, the way he’s leaned forward across the table, one hand cradling his drink and the other resting on his forearm - all of it screams “genuinely interested,” and Bucky can’t in good conscience give a bullshit answer.

He’s quiet for a minute while he thinks out his answer. Steve doesn’t look away, watching him curiously. “You know, I wish I could tell you. But I don’t even really know for sure. I wanna help people, so maybe victim advocacy. Or maybe even Native American law. But then there’s employment and labor law, employment discrimination, things like that. So I don’t really know, but I do know that you’ll never see me chasing ambulances or working with a corporation.”

Bucky has to admit then that Steve’s smile is probably one of his new favorite things.

“Good; I really didn’t want to hate you on principle. Have you done the crime victim clinic yet?”

“Not yet! I managed to get a spot for the summer, but I honestly have no idea what to expect.”

Steve takes a sip of his drink, “It’s actually… pretty fun. Lotta writing, lotta research.”

They chat for a while about the clinic, about the requirements and what it’s like working with actually licensed attorneys. Bucky’s not going to lie - he was terrified at the idea, especially the idea that maybe he’s not actually cut out to be an attorney. But the way Steve describes it, his excited gestures and anecdotes about things the attorneys have said and done in the office, has set him at ease to an extent.

The time passes quickly once they actually start talking, and Bucky learns a lot about Steve. He’s an only child, and, like Bucky, grew up in Brooklyn. Brooklyn’s a big place, though, so it’s not exactly shocking that they’d never met - Bucky lived in Williamsburg and Steve in Crown Heights. There was enough distance that they’d never had the chance to meet, and went to very different schools.

He learns that Steve did his Bachelor’s in Popular Culture, of all things. “I knew I wanted to go to law school, but I wasn’t really interested in majoring in political science or English. I mean, during admissions, you know what they’re looking for? Analytical ability, logic, reasoning skills, writing and research skills - they aren’t looking for any specific majors, so why not do something interesting?”

“But Popular Culture - where is that even a major?” Bucky laughs, taking a sip of his beer.

Steve shrugs, “Ohio is a strange, strange place.”

Things become a bit blurry for a while there; Sharon seems to think it’s a great idea to challenge Steve to a drinking contest, and before Bucky’s even finished his mule, there’s a line of tequila shots on the table and if Sharon expects Steve to be intimidated, she’s way off base.

Steve’s jaw is clenched, brows drawn together, and as Sharon takes her first shot, the intense expression fades into a grin.

Bucky stage whispers to Sam, “My money’s on Steve, that smile is terrifying.”

Sam nods, “We’re gonna end up finishing Sharon’s shots.”

Sharon gets to 4 shots in quick succession before she starts looking a little green. Steve finishes all 7 of his shots, barely even looking fazed, and Bucky and Sam slam back two of Sharon. They’re arguing over who’ll down the last when Bucky sees Steve reach out and grab it, licking the salt off the rim of the glass, downing the shot, and shoving the lime in his mouth.

There’s a long moment of silence as the three of them stare at Steve, broken only by the very drunken excited hoot of Sharon, “I have been bested! This calls for mo-”

“ _No_.” Sam smacks his hand over Sharon’s mouth, “No more shots for you. I’m getting you a Rainier. Anyone else?”

Bucky gestures to his now empty mule and Steve asks for another beer, and Sam nods. He’s gone from the table before Sharon can reply, a bit unsteady on his feet but definitely more coordinated than Bucky would be if he stood up. Sharon drops her head to the table.

Bucky giggles, reaching out across the table and patting Steve on the cheek, “You are the tequila king. TeKingLa.”

Sharon lifts her head with a snort and stumbles to her feet, but not before shoving a straw into Steve’s nose with a slurred, “Ayyyyy! I gotta pee, nerds.”

For someone who just downed 8 tequila shots and has a straw sticking out of his nose, Steve is the most nonplussed. He pulls the straw from his nose, snickers, and plops it back into the glass it came from. Bucky’s honestly hugely entertained by this, and he’s still laughing when Steve slides onto the bench next to him.

“Is that a thing she does often?” Steve asks, leaning against Bucky’s side as Bucky tries not to show exactly how happy he is about the sudden contact.

It’s Sam who answers as he drops three Rainiers and a pint glass of clear vodka-lime goodness on the table, “Only to the people sitting next to her. Thanks for throwing me to the wolves, by the way.”

Steve throws him a thumbs up, “You’re welcome.”

By the time 2 am comes around, Bucky has not only gotten to “very extremely drunk”, but has also found out that Steve’s stubbornness is at least 30% of what drives him, his favorite movie is The Princess Bride, and despite participating in a ridiculous number of protests, he’s never been arrested. “It’s great for my chances of being bar certified, but if I were a black man I’d be in jail and that’s bullshit.”

Last call is always an adventure at 616. Bucky can hear Carol’s shout from where they’re all sitting on the patio, the scraping of chairs in the main dining room as people get up and head to either close out or order their last few shots.

Sharon groans, “God is it that time already? Do we have to, like, pay money now?”

There’s a small scuffle as they all sluggishly get to their feet, and it only take a few steps for Bucky to realize he is a _lot_ drunker than he initially thought he was. The world tilts a little as he stumbles forward, but he’s stopped from falling over by a thin arm around his waist and shoulders under his outstretched arm.

“Easy there, Buck.” Steve says, mirth in his voice. Bucky grins down at him, or at least tries to - he’s pretty sure he’s looking at Steve’s face, but everything is a little blurry and off-kilter. He has a good face, a nice square jaw and the way his faded blue hair falls over his forehead is just nice. Bucky decides it’s a great idea to reach up and flick at Steve’s bangs, and Steve laughs. “You’re gonna feel this in the morning.”

Bucky giggles, leaning just a little more on Steve but still at least aware enough to know that completely leaning on him would end up with them both on the ground, “Understatement! How’re you even standin’?”

“I ain’t a lightweight, that’s how.” Steve’s smiling, and Bucky sort of wants to melt. “C’mon, let’s pay up.”

The four of them end up outside once money has been exchanged, and Bucky’s pretty sure he left a ridiculous tip but he’s not particularly torn up about it. Carol’s a great bartender, and in his drunken haze he’s sad they didn’t really talk to her as much as they usually do.

There are four picnic tables on the sidewalk in front of the bar, with prominent “No Smoking” signs on each. It’s after closing, though, and Bucky blatantly ignores the sign as he drops his drunk ass down on one of the tables and pulls out a cigarette. Sharon and Steve end up on either side of him, sandwiching him in and he’s definitely not complaining. It’s always chillier at night in Portland; it had been a fairly warm day, but it’s a good 20 degrees cooler at 3 in the morning and Bucky’s glad he thought to bring a hoodie with him. Steve’s bundled into his side, a nice weight against him that he honestly never wants to go away as he lights his cigarette and exhales.

Sharon makes grabby hands at his pocket, trying to grab out the pack, finally succeeding and snatching the lighter from his hand. He can practically feel Sam’s eyeroll, but before Bucky really knows it, he’s down three more cigarettes and Sam’s sitting on his left foot. No one says anything for a while, just the four of them leaning against each other and smoking in the cool night air.

Sam’s the first to drag himself to his feet. He lives the closest, literally around the corner, and he hugs them all at once before stumbling off into the night.

It’s only a few minutes later when Bucky tosses his butt into the street that he, Sharon, and Steve follow suit, clinging to each other and slowly making their way the opposite direction. Bucky’s building isn’t super far, but he has no idea where Steve lives. It’s a given that Sharon’ll be crashing on his couch, but Bucky’s bed is literally a broken futon that doesn’t actually flatten out into a bed anymore, and his air mattress died a gruesome death months before. He doesn’t want to leave Steve out in the cold.

“Steve. Steeeeve. Where d’ya live?” Bucky thinks his enunciation is clear enough to be understood, but he could be completely wrong.

“Yeah, just a coupla blocks.”

“Me too! Maybe we’re neighbors!”

It’s not until they’re in front of Bucky’s building and _Steve_ is the one letting them in with a little black fob that he realizes that they actually _are_ neighbors. “Steve. I live here.”

“I sort of figured. What floor?” Bucky’s glad there’s humor in Steve’s voice. He likes it when he’s laughing.

“This one. Around the corner?”

Getting into the apartment is a little blurry, and Bucky doesn’t actually remember unlocking his door or dropping into bed. He doesn’t remember Steve making sure he’s actually in bed, and he definitely doesn’t remember Sharon locking the door after Steve blows air kisses at the both of them and ducks out of the apartment.


	3. Preliminary Motions

 

Bucky wakes the next morning with a pounding head, a desert for a mouth, and the vague feeling that he puked a helluva lot the night before. He’s in his own bed, at the very least - an improvement from the last time he got blackout drunk, when he woke in his bathtub cradling an empty $300 bottle of champagne and wearing three pairs of sunglasses. Sharon, who had crashed on the couch, took many pictures and never let him forget it.

The location is an improvement. He kicks his blanket off with a grunt, reaching blindly for the bottle of water and plastic bag of ibuprofen he keeps on the bedside table. It probably says something about his life that he keeps both of these things in easy reach at all times, and Bucky isn’t exactly sure he wants to examine what it is that it says.

Downing three pills and chugging half the water bottle, he pulls himself from the bed and navigates himself through his trainwreck of a bedroom. He’s proud of himself for only tripping over a pile of dirty clothes once on his trek to the door. The bedroom door sticks when he tries to open it – it would probably be easy to fix, he knows, but the effort to actually do it wouldn’t be worth it, and it’s a small bit of unintentional security that Bucky sort of likes having.

He feels like he should probably be surprised by Sharon sprawled out on his couch. She’s down to just her t-shirt and underwear, blanket haphazardly draped over one leg and blonde hair a fucking catastrophe. He stares at her for a moment, snorting out a laugh before continuing the bathroom.

It’s a testament to how many times they’ve done this that he knows which floorboards to avoid on the way, what speed to close the bathroom door to keep it’s squeaking to a minimum.

By the time he’s emptied his bladder and brushed the taste of a bender out of his mouth, he feels some semblance of human and he can faintly hear Sharon attempting to get off the couch.

A soft thud makes him laugh again. When he pulls the door open, Sharon blinks up at him, owlish, from the living room floor.

“Wh’time is it?” Her voice is sleep hoarse, a little slurred.

Bucky shrugs, “Hell if I know. You still drunk?”

She scowls, using the couch for leverage as she pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. He wouldn’t be surprised if her back hurts – the couch is a goddamn menace and it’s never a pleasant place to sleep. She doesn’t stay standing long, plopping back down with a huff. “I don’t know, probably. How much did we fucking drink?”

“I wasn’t the one who thought a drinking contest was an awesome idea.”

“I didn’t think Steve could keep up!” Sharon’s retort would probably have more force behind it if she wasn’t quite so off-balanced and if she didn’t tie her words together with a groan of discomfort.

Bucky leaves her to her misery to check the time on his phone. He learned pretty fast that using the microwave was never a good idea - the piece of shit lost time every time it was used, slowly but surely going from accurate to hours off whenever he tries to reheat leftovers. It’s just past 9 AM.

When he tells Sharon this, she lets out the most dramatic whine he’s ever heard her make. It’s enough to make him laugh, coughing halfway through because his throat is still parched and his head is still pounding.

“God,” he mumbles, dropping into the armchair when he finally catches his breath, “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah we are.”

They sit in silence for a few good minutes before Bucky’s stomach gives an annoyed gurgle. He has no idea how he’s hungry after all the vodka he ingested the night before, but he learned early on that if food can be stomached after a night of heavy drinking, it’s the best way to stave off further agony to just down something greasy and maybe toss a mimosa in the mix.

He’s about ninety percent sure that’s he’s well on his way to alcoholism. At least the ABA offers free substance abuse counseling.

They sit in the living room for a while, both letting out exaggerated moans of discomfort in some weird misery contest, until both their phones vibrate at once. Sharon clearly can’t be bothered to grab her phone from her abandoned pants on the floor, so Bucky’s the one to read the group text from Sam, who, somehow, doesn’t seem to be all that hung over.

 **Sam “Birdman” Wilson [9:34 AM]:** I demand mancakes we’re going to stepping stone get your asses up and decent

Bucky’s a second away from replying with a string of expletives when another text comes through in the group.

 **Unknown Number [9:36 AM]** : yea im down ill make sure the drunks are up

He’s pretty sure that’s Steve, and adds the number to his contacts before he can forget.

“Sam wants Stepping Stone and Steve’s both enabling this and making fun of us.” Bucky reports, and Sharon lets out yet another dramatic groan.

“Can’t they just let us live? I don’t wanna move ever again.” People like to say that Bucky is dramatic, but honestly he has nothing on the blonde, who has made it practically an artform. She sprawls back on his couch, a leg tossed over the arm and her hand covering her face in a great imitation of a swooning woman in a Victorian painting.

“C’mon, breakfast food and mimosas, though.”

There’s a knock on the door before she can reply, and Bucky blinks as he drags himself to his feet and towards the door, “How the hell did Sam get here so fast?”

Sharon doesn’t answer, but Bucky figures she’s shrugging from her dramatic sprawl.

It’s not Sam at the door, but Steve, and suddenly Bucky remembers that _they live in the same building_. He doesn’t know how he forgot (which is a lie, because he knows exactly how he forgot), and he stares at the blond man a lot longer than he probably should before he finally actually lets him in. “Steve, hey.”

“Morning, Buck. I’m here to whisk you two away to breakfast.” Steve doesn’t even look like he was drinking the night before, and Bucky is torn between being ridiculously jealous and finding that extremely attractive.

Sharon waves from the couch, clearly not intent on standing up anytime soon. It’s obvious she’s not even the slightest bit concerned about her lack of pants, and a quick glance at Steve shows that he probably doesn’t particularly care, either.

“Can we not and say we didn’t?” Bucky’s pretty sure it’s a long shot, but the idea of actually leaving his apartment for food isn’t all great. Sharon makes an affirmative noise from the couch.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Yeah, no. Food. I’m starving.”

Sharon moans again, “But I don’t want to put on pants.”

“Don’t think we’ve got a choice, Shar. You can borrow a pair of my sweats, if you want.” Bucky offers, and it’s sort of amazing how quickly Sharon stumbles from the couch and half runs, half crawls into Bucky’s bedroom. He figures she’s probably grabbing the Star Wars sweatpants she’s constantly threatening to steal. He turns back to Steve, “Just let me put on something that doesn’t smell like a bar. Make yourself comfy.”

Stepping Stone is crowded when the three of them get there. It’s not a big space to begin with, with cramped tables and booths, a large counter, and a constant stream of bustling servers going to and from tables.

There’s no wait for a table, though, since Sam has already grabbed the corner booth. Bucky’s exceptionally grateful for this. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle having to stand outside in the too-bright sun - there’s only so much his sunglasses can block. Sharon takes her sunglasses off, but Bucky opts to leave his on his face because leaving the apartment was a mistake. He’s pretty sure he’s actually dying.

The silver lining is that Steve stays close to his side, and it’s nice to feel the warmth radiating from the smaller man. It’s really, really nice.

Sam waves frantically as they approach, grinning up at them, “So how hungover are you guys?”

Sharon shoves him over on the bench, sitting uncomfortably close to him. “Fuck you,” she says cheerfully, grabbing at his menu instead of the one in front of her.

It leaves Bucky free to sit next to Steve. The booth is just long enough for their legs not to touch, but as Bucky scoots further down to make sure Steve has enough room, Steve moves just the smallest bit closer. Their thighs are pressed together, and Bucky’s pretty sure his face is about as red as a fire hydrant. Hiding behind the menu probably isn’t the best thing he could do to hide, but at least it’s a productive method.

Bucky’s only been to Stepping Stone once before, but the menu definitely hasn’t changed since then. The worst part is having to scrounge around for something that doesn’t involve bacon or sausage, and it doesn’t take him long to remember why he’s only been there once. It’s not that he’s particularly religious; if anything, he’ll be the first to admit that he and his family have never exactly been strict in their Judaism. His dad has a bad habit of cooking pork chops, his mom is secretly a bacon bro, and his sister decided early on that dietary restrictions were out-dated hold-overs from days when people didn’t understand what caused food poisoning. The only person he remembers ever being strict was his grandmother, and even she was sometimes lax about it.

Still, every time he eats something he knows he probably shouldn’t, there’s a little bit of guilt. Bucky’s already hungover, and the idea of adding guilt on top of his pounding head isn’t exactly appealing.

“What’re gonna get?” Steve asks, elbowing him in the side as he looks at his own menu. He’s not looking at Bucky, instead absorbed in the red and white menu. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s completely oblivious to Bucky’s pork-related dilemma. That’s probably a good thing.

“I’m thinking either the chicken fried steak or the banana nut french toast. I don’t know. What doesn’t have bacon, I guess.”

Steve glances at him, “Not a fan?”

Bucky grins, “I mean it’s fine, but not really in the mood for my _bubbe_ to call me because her ‘Bucky is eating _treif_ ’ senses are tingling.”

Sharon snorts from across the table, “Are you trying to convince Steve that you’re a good Jewish boy? Because Bucky, my dude, that ship sailed when I saw you eating the clam chowder in the cafeteria.”

He balls up his napkin and throws it at her, “Hush, you. I’m just saying I don’t wanna deal with _bubbe_ guilt after getting shit-faced drunk last night.”

Sam chimes in, “You actually eat the clam chowder on campus?”

“You guys are killing me. Like, actually killing me. Steve, tell them to stop.” Bucky whines at Steve, who’s clearly trying not to laugh at the three of them.

“I gotta agree with Sam, Buck. They make New England clam chowder. _New England_!” Steve’s outright laughing at him at this point, and Bucky lets out a miserable, wounded sound.

“I hate all of you.”

The waitress times her approach perfectly, clearly amused by the four of them. He thinks he recognizes her from Chai Harder or maybe 616, but he can’t be sure. She quickly takes their orders, leaving them all to their bickering and projectile napkins.

Bucky’s glad that it’s been a good morning; Sam and Sharon are clearly enjoying poking fun at him, and Steve’s barely stopped smiling since they sat down. It’s mornings like this that make the bullshit of law school worth it. Good company, some semblance of decent food, and barring the hangover, good health. If everyday could have the same comfortable vibe to it, Bucky would consider his life a success.

By the time their food arrives, Sharon has devolved into an endless stream of giggles from something Sam had whispered to her. They’re both completely useless, but Steve looks just as confused as Bucky feels, and they shrug at each other. He always thinks that Sharon and Sam are one bickering match away from making out, but it never seems to happen. He’s considering bringing that up the next time Sharon gives him shit for being romantically incapable.

They tuck in, Steve sneaking his fork over and stealing a bite of his French toast. Bucky pretends to be put out, complaining that he can’t even steal any of Steve’s eggs benedict because “it’s contaminated by the flesh of the pig!” as Sam shoves a massive bite of the diner’s stupidly named “mancakes.” Sharon went with a more sedate mountain of hashbrowns covered in spinach and what Bucky thinks might be bacon but could just be brown bits of spinach.

Bucky leans into the warmth of Steve at his side unconsciously, not quite touching him. He let’s out a little pleased hum, disguising it with a bite of French toast, when Steve leans back, their shoulders pressed together just the slightest bit. Bucky would happily stay just like that forever.

Like most things, though, they can’t stay that way forever, and it’s not long before they’ve all finished their breakfast and lean back against their seats, full and feeling substantially less hungover than when they arrived.

“So now what?” Bucky asks Sam, who shrugs.

“I only thought this far ahead, man.” Sam grins, the small gap in his teeth visible with how bright it is. “I got a project due Monday, so I’ll probably head to the coffee shop to work on it.”

Sharon groans, “Don’t talk about school, Mr. Masters in Psychology. I definitely don’t want to think about classes.”

“We made terrible life decisions by going to law school,” Steve says, deadpan, and Bucky snorts. He’s not wrong. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been comfortable not studying and instead getting shit faced. Sure, he drinks every Friday, but never as much as he did the night before. Every moment spent not studying is a moment of guilt. He’s looking forward to the summer, towards only having the one clinic and no actual classes, having free time that isn’t full of dread for the next Monday.

“True,” Sharon replies, “We should study later tonight. We’ve got the Islamic Law exam during the reading period, so may as well get started.”

Steve nods around a sip of water, “Yeah, sounds good. I’m still a little fuzzy on some of the sword verses.”

“I guess I could study for property?” Bucky adds, because it’s the one class he’s most nervous about. Horror stories abound about property, but it’s not as bad as he thought it would be and that makes him nervous.

They talk shop for a few more minutes, talking through the waitress bringing their check and slapping credit cards down to pay for their feast. By the time they leave, it’s well after 11 am and all Bucky wants to do is go home and crawl back into bed. Not because he’s tired, exactly, but because it’s a Saturday and being awake before 1 pm on a Saturday is an actual catastrophe. He doesn’t though, and when Sharon and Sam go their separate ways to their apartments, Bucky and Steve walk back together.

Bucky nudges Steve, “I’m glad we finally got to hang out. Not gonna lie, you intimidated the shit outta me.”

Steve laughs, nudging back, “Me too, Buck. I don’t know why you’d be intimidated by me, though. I’m not all that scary.”

“No, you’re really not,” Bucky pauses, looking around conspiratorially before leaning in and saying, softly, “you’re a big ol’ softy, that’s what you are.”

“You’re a jerk,” Steve manages between honest-to-god giggles, and Bucky grins so widely his face hurts.

“Eh, you’re a punk, but I guess you’re okay.”

By the time they get to their apartment building, they’re laughing and rough-housing like old friends, and when Bucky unlocks his apartment door, he’s hard-pressed to wipe the ridiculous smile off his face.


	4. Trial

 

Finals go about as well as expected; Bucky vanishes for three weeks, his entire life suddenly devoted to studying and the occasional shift at the coffee shop to break up the monotony. He gets the occasional text from Sharon and Sam making sure he’s still alive (or, in Sharon’s case, telling him to ask Steve out and making fun of his inability to actually do it), and more frequent texts from Steve.

It’s sort of amazing how quickly they went from almost complete strangers to joined at the hip. Bucky figures them living in the same building helps a lot. He’s amazed at the easy friendship that’s sprouted between them. It’s one of those things that Bucky has always been sort of bad at - the only reason he’s as close to Sharon and Sam as he is largely comes from the fact that they’re tenacious. Bucky’s great at _making_ friends, but not so great at maintaining friendships once they start. It’s always been one of his weaknesses, because people are hard and sometimes it’s just easier to stick to himself.

But he’s noticed that since being in law school, and since meeting Sharon, he’s wanted to try harder to actually put genuine effort into not being avoidant. They make it easy. But with Steve, there’s almost no effort - after their drunken shenanigans and the group breakfast the next day, everything between them was relaxed and simple. He doesn’t know why he was so terrified of Steve for so long.

He’s easy to talk to, fun to be around, and doesn’t put up with his shit when Bucky starts to get self-deprecating. It’s nice.

After his exams, he’d spent almost every day with Steve in some way. Usually, it was accidental. The first time, Bucky had been leaving his apartment to head to a shift at Chai Harder when he ran into Steve in the lobby. They’d walked together to the coffee shop, chatting and laughing, and by the time Bucky started his shift there was a pleasant warmth spreading through him. Steve had stayed for all of Bucky’s shift, coming up to shoot the shit between customers. It was one of his best shifts (and his tips reflected that).

The next day, they’d met at the coffee shop and ended up wandering around downtown. It was a warm, clear day - rare at any other time of the year, but abundant in the summer. Steve had brought a towel with him, and they lounged in the grass in Waterfront park until the sun fell behind the buildings.

Sharon, of course, has been using this to send him memes.

By the time his summer clinic hours officially starts and the bootcamp day is over, Bucky actually feels rested and ready to get started. It’s a weird feeling, and he knows it has everything to do with the previous week being so completely relaxing.

He’s up early, for once, and takes his time getting dressed. Bucky’s glad that the office has a business casual dresscode, meaning he can pull on a pair of nice jeans and shrug into a pale blue button down and call himself sorted. He feels bad for the two women in the clinic, Karen and Jen - business casual means something very different for women, and Karen had complained that trying to put together an outfit was stressful. Bucky thinks he understands, objectively, but it sucks that her and Jen have to put in twice the effort to be taken seriously as he does.

He’s out the door by 7:20 and on the bus by 7:27. He likes the bus in the mornings, especially when it’s not crowded. Everyone is in their own worlds, sleepy and absorbed in newspapers or phones, and the peacefulness of it never fails to have Bucky relaxing into his seat. He holds his bag in his lap and smiles at the people who take seats around him. Some of them even smile back.

He hops off a few blocks from the office, pulling his bag onto his back and starting the short walk. There’s aren’t many people out yet, but everyone he does see is rushing to somewhere. Bucky doesn’t know what exactly it is he loves about it; he thinks maybe it’s because it reminds him of home, or that it’s a reminder that everyone has something in their life. It’s the realization that everyone he sees has their own lives, their own thoughts, their own hopes and dreams and challenges.

As the Starbucks comes into view, Bucky figures he’s being way too existential for 7:40 in the morning and that a coffee would probably do wonders. The line is long, but the wait isn’t too bad and it’s only a few minutes before Bucky is crossing the street to the office with a mocha in one hand and a bagged sandwich in the other. In front of the office building, he puts his breakfast on top of a parking meter and digs his cigarettes out of his bag. There’s enough time before he needs to be inside to light up a smoke, and he takes advantage of it.

He’s maybe two puffs in when he hears someone call his name. “Bucky!”

Bucky looks around, not exactly sure where the call came from, but he’s not confused long when Steve comes up to his left. “Steve, hey! What’re you doing over here this early?”

Steve scowls, “I was gonna meet you and buy your coffee before you went in, but you’re here earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m a secret morning person, hasn’t anyone told you?” Bucky jokes, Steve letting out a small huff of a laugh. Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette, making sure to blow the smoke away from Steve.

“That’s at least one good quality, I guess.”

“I’ll have you know I have many good qualities,” Bucky fakes affront, trying not to smile at the teasing.

Steve snorts, bumping elbows with him, “Is being a pain in the ass a good quality?”

“I don’t know, you’re the expert there. How’s that working out for you?” Bucky doesn’t hold back his grin this time as he looks down at Steve, who’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“You’re a jerk.” Steve manages to say, but the wide grin spreading across his face is fond.

Bucky very much wants to kiss that grin. “S’ok, you’re a punk. We’re a matched set.”

They chat for a few more minutes before Bucky realizes that if he doesn’t go inside immediately he’ll end up late for his first day. He stubs out his cigarette, guiltily tossing it into the gutter, and grabbing his breakfast from the parking meter.

“You’re done at 1, right?” Steve asks as Bucky heads towards the building.

“Yeah, hopefully.”

“Want to meet by the food carts for lunch?” Steve jerks his thumb in the direction of the cart block a street over.

Bucky nods, “Definitely. I’ll probably be starving by then.”

Steve beams, “Awesome. I’ll see you then. Good luck today!”

Bucky can’t help but pull Steve into a hug, a bit awkward with the cup and bag in his hands, but still deeply satisfying when Steve hugs him back.

The knowledge of something to look forward to gets him through the day quickly. The clinic is intense; the subject matter alone is heartbreaking, and the work itself is hard, but by the time his shift ends he feels like he’s actually _done_ something. It’s a great feeling, one that reminds him why law school seemed like such a good idea when he first started applying to schools.

He clocks out quickly, packing up his computer and notes and waving goodbye to Karen as he heads out the door of the intern bullpen. The street outside is a lot busier than it had been that morning, and not for the first time Bucky wonders what kind of hours most people work. He’d grown up being told that 9 to 5 was the norm, but honestly regardless of where he lives that never seems to be the case.

It doesn’t take too long to get to the food carts, and even less time to spot Steve. He’s facing the opposite direction, and Bucky’s pretty sure he’s talking to someone on his phone. Bucky takes a moment to just watch him, the way he gestures with his free hand, the way he paces, the way the sun filtering through the trees makes his dyed-blue hair almost glow. He doesn’t understand why no one else is as entranced by him as Bucky is; there are so many people just walking past him, not even giving him a passing glance, and it’s almost unfathomable. How, he wonders, can anyone not look at Steve Rogers and wonder what it would be like to press their face into his hair and wrap their arms around him?

The thought surprises him. Bucky knows he had a bit of a crush on the man. While self-awareness isn’t something he’s spectacular with, he’s still likes to think he’s self-aware enough to recognize how he feels about someone. Obviously, he was completely wrong. He loves spending time with Steve, loves the easy friendship that developed between them, despite Bucky having been so terrified of making a bad impression. He loves the way Steve laughs at his stupid jokes, and the way they can sit in comfortable silence while studying.

It really shouldn’t be surprising, he realizes, that “bit of a crush” has become a massive, ridiculous understatement. “Head over heels for” is probably a better approximation.

Only problem is, as he watches Steve hang up the phone and look around, is that now Bucky doesn’t actually know how to act around him. Bucky pulls his phone out as he ducks behind a tree, hiding like the coward he is. He pulls up the old group chat between him, Sharon, and Sam and quickly sends off a message.

 **Bucky [1:05 pm]** : Sos I’m getting lunch w Steve and I might be a little in love with him what do I do?

He glances out from behind the tree towards where Steve was standing, almost dropping his phone when he sees that he’s not only a bit closer to his hiding place, but that there’s a dejected slump to his shoulders. Bucky can’t stand it. He shoots off a text to him, telling him he’s running a little late, and watches as Steve reads it. The slump lessens just as Bucky’s phone vibrates in quick succession in his hand.

 **Sam “Falcon” Wilson [1:08 pm]** : Might be? You’ve been pine scented for weeks just get lunch with him.

 **Sharon Carter [1:08 pm]** : Dude we know can you just ask him out on an actual date already?

 **Sharon Carter** **[1:09 pm]** : Like really he thinks the sun shines out of your ass DATE HIM. I’m tired of watching this dumpster fire burn.

 **Bucky [1:10 pm]** : Both of you are horrible friends I’m having a crisis and you’re not helping.

 **Sam “Falcon” Wilson [1:10 pm]** : We’re helping, you’re just overdramatic

 **Sharon Carter [1:11 pm]** : I bet you’re hiding from him again stop being a baby

Bucky scowls down at the conversation. He knows they’re right; he knows he’s being overdramatic and a fucking idiot, but he wasn’t prepared to be smacked in the face by _emotions_ because of something like the way the _sun hit Steve’s hair_.

But he knows they’re right, and his tendency to hide instead of just _fucking going for it_ has never exactly worked out in his favor. He squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and steps out from his hiding place.

Except suddenly Steve’s nowhere to be seen and Bucky deflates. He tries to catch a glimpse of blue hair in the bustling lunchtime crowd, but there’s no sign of him. He pulls his phone back out, sending Steve a quick “here now, where are you?”

Bucky jumps about 15 feet in the air when someone taps him on the shoulder, spinning around to find Steve standing there and grinning at him. “Right here. Saw you having an existential crisis behind the tree and figured I’d wait for you to text me.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky mutters.

“Everything okay?” Steve doesn’t bother to hide the concern in his voice, the way his blue eyes soften. Bucky falls a little harder.

He clears his throat, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just… weird day?” That seems like a good excuse for why he’s an absolute shitshow, and even if it’s not the absolute truth, it’s close enough. It was a normal day up until ten minutes ago.

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but he let’s it drop. “That clinic is intense, right?”

“Yeah, I expected it to be heavy, but the assignment they have me working on is more upsetting than I thought it would be.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair, glad to talk about work instead of floundering for normality, “They have me writing a memo on rape shield laws and honestly I thought we’d made so much more progress than we actually have.”

They start walking around the block, still chatting about the clinic and the types of assignments Steve did when he took the course, occasionally stopping and looking at the menus for the carts. It’s nice and easy and Bucky’s starting to wonder why he was ever nervous about how to act.

They take their burritos to O’Bryant Square. The park is crowded, but that’s not unusual for the early afternoon lunch rush. Bucky manages to snag them a bench at the top of the stairs towards the back where there’s some shade from the bright sun. It’s the perfect people watching spot, and they eat in silence for a few minutes.

On the bench across from them, there’s a couple closely watching a toddler play with a largely disinterested samoyed; Bucky can’t help but laugh at the way the kid plops down on the dog and rubs his face into the massive fluff. He glances over to Steve to make a joke, but Steve’s already looking at him with a fond little grin.

“You’re such a nerd,” he says before taking another messy bite of his burrito, making a frustrated noise when a glob of beans falls to the ground.

Bucky shrugs, “I really can’t argue with that, but, man, what does that make you?”

“I never said I _wasn’t_ a nerd, Buck.” Steve laughs, mirthful and happy.

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

The burritos are quickly demolished, but the weather is so nice that neither Bucky nor Steve are in any hurry to leave. Around them, the park slowly clears out until there are only a few stragglers remaining - a couple sits on a short brick wall towards the front of the park, while a few people in suits pass through without stopping. A group of campers has set up a small haven beneath the shade of one of the few trees on the lot, and Bucky watches them for a moment. He recognizes a few of them and smiles and waves when one notices him and lifts a hand in greeting. One plays the guitar, singing in a raspy voice, while his girlfriend plays the spoons, her own crooning voice joining in seamlessly.

It’s nice to just sit there in the early summer breeze and warming sunlight, listening to the sounds of the city around them. Steve doesn’t seem inclined to break the silence, and Bucky’s glad. He wants to talk to Steve, wants to hear his voice and make him laugh and listen to what he has to say, but these silent moments are nice, too. Bucky can just _be_ with Steve, no expectations beyond simple company. When Steve leans against him on the bench, Bucky smiles softly and drapes his arm over his shoulders.

It’s a perfect moment.


	5. Verdict

 

He doesn’t have office hours on Friday, which is at least half the reason Bucky’s pissed when his phone goes off and wakes him from a dead sleep. He grabs for it, muttering expletives under his breath as he answers the call.

“I swear to god you better have a fucking good reason for waking me up at -” Bucky glances, bleary eyed, to his alarm clock, “7:35 in the morning.”

Sharon’s cheerful voice greets him, “Good morning to you too, you grumpy motherfucker!”

“I’m gonna murder you.”

“You say the sweetest things.” She actually coos at him, and he drags himself to sit up, rubbing at his face as he just grunts at her. “Sam’s at my place. We wanna go to the coast today. You down?”

Bucky groans, “You couldn’t have waited a few hours before rudely waking me up?”

“Of course not, we wanna leave by like 9.”

He stumbles to his feet, phone still pressed to his ear as he tries to pull on the sweatpants at the foot of his bed. It’s not that he doesn’t want to go to the beach with his friends, it’s just that he’d much rather still be sleeping. “Yeah, okay. Who all is going?”

He has to pull the phone away when Sharon let’s out a triumphant shout, barely getting it back in place before she’s talking again, “Matt, Foggy, and Karen are gonna meet us there, and Sam tried to get Tony to come along since we never see him, but he’s working.”

Bucky tries not to feel too down that Steve isn’t coming, “Sounds great. I’ll start getting my stuff together. Meet at Chai Harder or where?”

“Oh, we’re meeting at Steve’s. He’s driving.” Sharon says, and Bucky definitely doesn’t imagine the smug edge to her voice.

“You piece of shit!” He laughs, because if nothing else Sharon is damn good at fucking with him.

Sharon lets out a snort, “Honestly, Barnes, did you really think I wasn’t going to demand his presence? I’m sick of the pining and love-lorn gazes, but your crush is entertaining so I put up with it.”

“You poor, poor martyr.”

By the time they hang up, Bucky has packed up a bag for the day with swimtrunks (just in case the Pacific is somehow swimmable), a massive towel, a blanket he doesn’t mind getting sandy, some water shoes, sunblock, and other odds and ends. His guitar sits by the door, ready for adventure. He’s just changing out of his sweats and into a loose pair of linen pants when there’s a knock at the door. He quickly ties them off, tripping over his bag in his haste.

Steve’s on the other side, and Bucky can’t actually stop the flush that heats his face and neck. He’ll blame it on the adrenaline from nearly faceplanting. “Hey, g’morning!”

“Mornin’, Buck. You ready for a weekend at the beach?”

Bucky blinked, Steve sliding by into the apartment and plopping down on the couch before Bucky can even respond. “What do you mean, weekend?”

“Dean Carter’s beach house? Sharon didn’t tell you?” He looks bemused, and Bucky knows the feeling well. Sharon is devious, Bucky decides, because she _knew_ Bucky would say yes a lot easier if he thought it was just a day trip. It’s not that he has a problem with spending the weekend on the beach, drinking shit beer and praying that the water is warm enough to swim in without hypothermia and winding down the evening with bonfires and smores. He loves it; hell, he goes on the three day coast retreat that the environmental law student association puts on, even though it’s in October and rainy, just because he loves the crash of the waves, the smell of the ocean. So it’s definitely not because he has a problem with it.

It’s because she obviously knows how to play him like a fucking fiddle. Not telling him straight off that Steve is going, and neglecting to mention that it was for the full weekend? Sharon’s playing matchmaker.

Bucky has half a mind to let her. The other is screaming because _three days on the beach with Steve Rogers_. “No, she sort of failed to mention that part. Just give me a few to get my shit together now that I’m not woefully left in the dark.”

Steve snickers, making himself as comfortable as possible on the horribly uncomfortable couch, “Go for it.”

It doesn’t take him long to dump everything out of his bag, grab his slightly larger duffle, and repack with extra clothes, toiletries, and Cards Against Humanity. If nothing else, they can get drunk and be horrible people if the weather doesn’t hold. Hefting the bag onto his shoulder and snatching up his guitar, he kicks at Steve’s shin.

“Ready when you are,” and he’s really not prepared for the pleased little smile on Steve’s lips as he takes in the guitar.

“You play?” he asks, Bucky failing to hide a blush as he taps the hard case with a sandaled toe.

“By a definition of ‘play,’ yeah. Not very well. I’m still sort of learning, but it’s a left-handed guitar so a lot of the resources just confuse me.” It’s a great guitar and he’s had it since high school, a gift from his _bubbe_ on his birthday. He’d had another one, a classic acoustic with a broad neck that he could never manage to hold right, and she’d found the acoustic Yamaha at an estate sale. The narrow neck was easier to handle, and the fact that it was left-handed helped a lot in fixing his problems with holding the damn thing.

“I can show you some stuff, if you want. Mine’s in the car.” There’s an obvious excitement to Steve’s words, and it’s infectious - Bucky finds himself nodding before he makes the conscious decision that, yes, he would love to play guitar with him. Steve beams, “Great! Sam and Sharon should be here soon, so let’s get this stuff packed up.”

They head out to Steve’s car, an old green Rodeo, and shove Bucky’s bag and guitar case in the back with Steve’s stuff and a cooler. There’s just enough room left for a whatever Sharon and Sam bring, and looking at their bags all mingled together makes Bucky feel giddy. A whole weekend at the coast with his closest friends. He’s excited.

It’s not quite 9 yet, and the others are still nowhere to be found. He figures they’re taking their time walking over, especially since neither are particularly _light_ packers and lugging all their shit probably is time consuming. Bucky asks Steve if it’s cool if he smokes real quick, and at Steve’s nod, he lights up and leans against the gate surrounding the parking lot. He knows he should probably quit, but it’s a daunting task, especially given the stress of school. He hadn’t smoked nearly as much in his undergrad or during his masters, but there was something about huddling with 10 other stressed law students in the designated smoking area that was soothing. There’s only a year left of school, though, and he figures he’ll smoke like a fucking chimney until after the bar exam, when he fully intends on slam dunking his last pack into the garbage.

He likes the fact that Steve doesn’t give him shit for it. Sharon and Sam never really let up on it, and he gets it, but sometimes what he needs is for people to not comment on his personal failings and just let him do his thing. He knows it’s bad, but the more they harp on it the less likely he is to actual quit. But Steve doesn’t judge him for it, or tell him he’s killing himself, and Bucky knows it’s not because Steve doesn’t care - it’s because he gets that sometimes repeatedly telling someone something they already know isn’t going to do anything but cause frustration.

Bucky adds that to the list of things he loves about Steve. At this point, the list is pretty damn long and grows every time they spend any time together.

His cigarette is long done and they’re having a thumb war on the car’s tailgate when Sam and Sharon stroll up together, laughing as they try to trip the other up. It’s goddamn adorable and Bucky mimes gagging at them, Steve shaking his head and using Bucky’s distraction to completely demolish his thumb warrior.

They manage to fit everything in the back and it’s not long before they’re on the road, music blasting. Bucky curls up in the back seat, grinning at Steve and Sharon trying to sing along in the front. Sharon had quickly called shotgun on the grounds that it was her aunt’s house they were going to and so it was only right that she navigate. No one argued, though Steve had shot Bucky a quick glance that he desperately wished he could decipher.

 

It’s not a long trip, and the drive is largely uneventful. Bucky falls asleep about 20 minutes in, his hoodie balled up as a makeshift pillow against the door, and only rouses when they get to the beach house and Sharon yanks the door open under him and he tumbles out, only stopped from landing head first on the gravel driveway by his seatbelt.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?!” Bucky demands when he finally manages to untangle himself and stumble from the car. Sharon just cackles in response, skipping off towards a two story house that’s more window than anything else. He can’t hold back a scowl as he questions his entire life and every friendship he’s ever had. They’re all assholes. All of them. Sam just reinforces this by slapping him on the back and saying that at least they didn’t draw dicks on his face.

Steve, at the very least, has the decency to pretend to be concerned for his continued existence, though his concern is betrayed by how hard he’s trying to _not_ smile. “C’mon, let’s get inside before they booby trap the bathroom.”

They unpack the cooler first, shoving the beer and hotdogs in the fridge, before heading upstairs to pick their rooms. The house is huge, bordering on “mansion” status, and honestly Bucky wouldn’t expect anything less from Dean Peggy Carter. She’s a formidable lady, and her vacation home reflects that in the sharp angles of every surface, softened only by vases of fresh flowers. He figures there’s a housekeeper who keeps the plants alive. There are six bedrooms, if the pullout couch in the den is considered a bedroom, and Sharon reminds them that there are other people coming so they can’t all have their own room. He’s sees right the fuck through her thinly veiled attempt to get him and Steve to bunk up.

That doesn’t mean he fights it when Steve suggests they share. Bucky pointedly ignores Sharon’s smug grin when he quickly agrees and drags his stuff into a room with a massive California king.

Bucky did not think this through. Which, to be fair, has never been his strong suit. It’s not a big deal, he decides a bit hysterically, because it’s a big bed and Bucky is very, very good at boundaries.

Except it is a big deal,  traitorous part of his mind supplies, because Steve is gorgeous and Bucky is weak.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing?” Steve asks, and Bucky really hopes he’s not asking because he’s being _super fucking obvious_.

“N-no! Not at all!” Bucky squeaks out. He’d be embarrassed by it, but shame isn’t exactly high on his priority list right now.

“Okay.”

They toss their bags on the bed, unzipping and grabbing out what they’ll need more immediately.

By the time they get downstairs, Sharon and Sam are sitting out on the patio, cans of Rainier already in hand as they lounge in the morning sunlight. The deck leads to a set of old wooden stairs leading down to the beach itself, the pale-yellow sand blowing up in the southern wind.

The thing Bucky loves the most about the Oregon coast is how different it is from the beaches he’s used to on the east coast. The Pacific is so much of a darker blue, deep and foreboding but still so welcoming. Where there’s warm water and white sand on the east, there’s cold water and rocky shores. Out in the water, there are pillars of rock, stark against the horizon. They don’t look as huge as they are, distance creating the illusion of smallness against the vast expanse of the ocean.

It’s gorgeous and, God, for the first time in weeks Bucky actually feels _relaxed_.

“There’s some cut fruit in the kitchen, if you guys want some kind of food before we start the day drinking.” Sam says when they approach, tossing a grape towards his mouth and missing with a groan.

Sharon adds, “We prioritized the alcohol and sort of forgot to bring more food.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Why am I not surprised?”

Steve saves the day, “There’s a bunch of stuff in the cooler and some snacks in my car. It’s mostly Redvines and dill chips, but at least it’s edible.”

Sharon reaches a hand out towards Steve, grabbing at him, “Steve, you are a gift to humankind, I just want you to know that.”

“I do my best.”

Steve pulls one of the lounge chairs and then a second closer to where Sharon and Sam are sprawled, dropping down and spreading out. Bucky takes a moment to just take in the scene, the way Sharon sips at her beer with her eyes closed and face tilted towards the sun, the way Sam plays that stupid cat game on his phone, and the way Steve looks loose and relaxed, his hair ruffled by the breeze. It’s one of those moments when Bucky wishes he was a better photographer, that he could capture this moment on film and hold onto it forever. Instead, he pulls his phone out and takes a shitty phone photo, but it’s enough.

He finally pulls himself away to go grab a couple of beers, offering to grab refills for Sharon a Sam (an offer greeted by overly enthusiastic cheers).

He takes the moment alone in the kitchen to take a deep breath. He’s only been here for less than 20 minutes and he’s already feeling a bit overwhelmed, a bit shaky. It’s a weird combination of emotions - on one hand, he’s calmed by the ocean and by the clean salt air, but on the other everything feels charged, on the precipice and it’ll only take that single lightning strike to send him careening over the edge.

He glances out the window to where the others sit. He’s spent so much time with these people and they’re all so important to him. He thinks that might be the only thing keeping him from just jumping off that cliff himself and hoping that Steve will catch him. Pining, apparently, makes him run with shitty metaphors. But he sort of wants to see what would happen, whether Steve would actually be interested in taking that step from just friendship into something else. He hates it when people say “something more” when talking about romantic relationships. It feels disingenuous, an over-simplification. He gets a lot of shit when he says that a significant other should be your best friend, but what they don’t get is that romantic feelings aren’t somehow more important that platonic feelings, that transitioning from friends to partners doesn’t somehow make the relationship more important. Sure, it’s more in that there’s more to it, but it’s not better or worse. It just _is_.

He wants to see if Steve gets it, if Steve would understand that Bucky doesn’t see romance as something _more_ , but as something _else_ , a side-ways motions.

Bucky grabs four cans of Rainier from the fridge, steels his face, and heads back outside.

 

When Matt, Foggy, and Karen arrive, Sharon and Sam are well on their way to drunk and Bucky and Steve has nice buzzes going on. Karen holds Matt’s elbow as they walk, guiding him around the outside of the house and up the stairs to the patio. Foggy walks behind them, and Bucky has to hold back a laugh at the expression on his face, pure exasperation because they both know that Matt definitely doesn’t need the help getting around. The man has a fantastic sense of direction, and Bucky remembers how easily Matt could navigate campus even without his cane during their first year. Bucky catches Foggy’s eyes, and they both roll their eyes. At least Bucky’s not the only one with a crush.

More lounge chairs get dragged out, everyone sitting in a messy semicircle and passing the Redvines and shitty beer around. At some point, Foggy pulls out his phone and some bluetooth speakers and puts on music, some shitty hipster band that Bucky has never heard, and the party really starts.

Things get hazy around 3 pm, the peak of their drunken shenanigans, as the temperature manages to rise about 80 degrees. Foggy and Sam run, a bit unsteadily, down to the water, screeching as the frigid water licks their toes. People on the beach don’t even pay any attention to them, but Bucky practically falls over laughing, Steve’s warm hand on his shoulder the only thing keeping him from tumbling from his lounge chair and to the patio. Karen is sitting close to Matt, narrating what their friends are doing through her own poorly concealed laughter. Bucky feels a pierce of want at the soft smile on Matt’s lips, the way their legs are angled together and Matt’s hand rests, gently, on Karen’s bare knee.

Bucky glances to Steve, only to find him already looking, eyes soft. Bucky forgets how to breathe. It’s only a moment, but it’s enough for hope to well up in his chest, for him to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he should just go for it. As fast as he sees it, it’s gone, replaced with a mischievous grin as Steve gets to his feet, wobbling as he finds his balance, before booking it for the water.

Bucky will never recover from the way Steve looks soaking wet when he stumbles out of the water a few minutes later.

 

When the sun starts to set, Sam enlists Bucky and Foggy to help him drag wood down to the beach to build a bonfire. It starts small, until Foggy decides it needs to be the biggest fire and suddenly they’ve built something that could be considered a viking funeral pyre. When Foggy runs back up for the lighter fluid, Sam dismantles parts of it.

“I refuse to set the whole beach on fire.” He tosses a good bit of wood back in the wheelbarrow before shoving newspaper and what looks like an old edition of a psychology textbook in for kindling. Foggy pouts when he comes back, but doesn’t put up much of a fight.

A few trips later, they’ve pulled chairs and blankets down, spread across the sand a safe distance from the wood, and Steve heads down with the cooler a few minutes later. Bucky peaks inside, seeing more beer, metal skewers, and a metric ton of hotdogs and wrapped blocks of cheese.

By the time everyone navigates down from the house to the fire, it’s blazing and already cutting through the chill that comes with nights on the beach. They’re close enough to the house that they’re not in the way of other beachgoers, but close enough to the water that the flames reflect on the incoming waves the further below the horizon the sun gets.

Bucky sprawls on one of the blankets. He’s suddenly exhausted, the early morning and heavy drinking catching up to him, but he doesn’t get a moment to really just lay there before he feels a foot nudge his side. He groans into the blanket, a laugh greeting him.

“C’mon, Buck. Can’t have a bonfire without someone playing the guitar.” Steve’s voice is barely audible above the hoots and hollers of their friends, and for the second time that night, Bucky can’t quite breathe when he looks at Steve. Illuminated in the firelight, Steve’s faded blue hair almost looks like it’s natural blond in the red and orange light, his cheekbones and jaw standing out from the deep shadows just out of light’s reach.

“Yeah.” Bucky can’t quite get any other words out, watching as Steve sits next to him on the blanket and passes him his guitar.

The thing is, Bucky wasn’t joking when he said he’s not particularly good at playing.

Steve, though, is phenomenal. There’s an easy grace to the way his fingers work the frets, run over the strings. Bucky doesn’t know the song he plays, but he tries to keep up, following along to the melody as best as his clumsy fingers can. Steve smiles reassuringly at him the entire time.

It’s not long before everyone else gets in on it, singing along or making grabby hands for the guitars so they can have a turn. When Matt grabs Bucky’s and starts playing, Karen looks momentarily surprised before it fades into realization and absolute affection. Foggy’s attempts aren’t much better than Bucky’s, but it doesn’t matter. It’s fun.

While the others play around on the guitars, Bucky lays back on the blanket. It’s a clear night, and even with the brightness of fire, the stars are still visible and clear and beautiful. He’s so absorbed in stargazing that he barely notices when someone lays down next to him, pressed against his side. Before he can move his arm to make more room, a head comes to rest on his shoulder. It’s Steve, cozied right up to him, and before he can really process it, the other man reaches down and threads their fingers together. He hides his face in Bucky’s shoulder, like he’s embarrassed or afraid, and Bucky’s heart is pounding fit to burst from his chest.

This is actually happening. Maybe there’s hope yet.

He presses a kiss into Steve’s hair, feeling the softness on his lips and he was wrong, before, when he thought sitting in the park with Steve by his side was a perfect moment. Steve lets out a pleased hum.

He squeezes Steve’s hand, letting everything he feels for the other man push through his fingers into Steve’s, and thinks, _this is a perfect moment._

  
Sharing the bed that night is anything but awkward.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is the end, technically, but I'll be including some timestamps of things I couldn't fit into the main narrative but REALLY want to write.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Bucky Barnes, (Not Quite) Esquire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908946) by [toomanysharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomanysharks/pseuds/toomanysharks)




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